Turn Out the Lights
by BandGeek58407
Summary: Fast forward to House and Cuddy's wedding. Wilson's the best man and would rather be anywhere else in the world, or dead. Dead works too. But maybe that's just the amphetamines talking. Huddy, Hilson.


**A/N: Wilson's POV. Lots of stream-of-consciousness in the longer first bit. Warnings are only for momentary strong language. **

I keep thinking this is a bad dream, like I'm going to wake up any second and find out the past six months never happened, hahaha, it was all in your head, hahaha, now you know how House felt! Only I wouldn't be laughing—I'd be cheering, and then they'd ask just what I was cheering about.

Well.

It's a long story.

And it ends here, today, right _now_, and I'm in the motherloving middle of it, though I don't see my mother anywhere; Blythe is here. Duh. And she's loving it like the McDonald's jingle. Of course.

Holy _crap_, I hate tuxes so much.

I hate this day so much.

I don't want to be here.

Isn't that an awful thing to say? Here I am, best man at my best friend's goddamn wedding, and I'm imagining all the things I would rather be doing than standing here with the cheesy best-man mask smothering my pores.

Doing my taxes: more useful.

Reading Joyce's _Ulysses_: time would go by a little quicker.

Getting an MRI: more fun.

Having a monster truck run me down, back over me three times and letting my remains get feasted upon by a fleet of tiny, yipping Chihuahuas: infinitely less painful.

Not to mention that this is House who's getting married, Dr. I-will-not-get-married. Seems kind of odd, right? Perfect nightmare material, except for the whole lack of giant centipedes.

I mean, ew. No nightmare is complete without those. So…no nightmare this is. All hope gone again. Where are my Chihuahuas?

And it's Cuddy he's marrying, that…that…

I can't even let myself think something that bad about our Dean of Medicine. Wow. OK, let me try that again: ahem.

And it's Cuddy he's marrying, that bitch.

Hm. And it seems I've leaked a goofy grin onto my face, and it must be kind of misplaced because from the bridesmaid line Cameron is shooting me the "what the eff?" look since she'd never say "fuck." Not her. Me, I said it plenty of times this morning and I'd like to shout it RIGHT NOW. Alas, that would not result in fond wedding memories.

But somewhere in the back of my head, a little voice says that all this might just be the amphetamines talking. And the amphetamines would like me to tell that voice to go on and shut the hell up. A few years ago when House dosed me I weaseled out of him that he gave me thirty milligrams. Today I just took half of a tablet, five milligrams, whoopee, not that big a deal. Seriously. I'm not even twitching.

I'm just thinking. A lot. About stuff, lots of stuff.

Like how my imminent doom has yet to walk down the aisle and we're all just standing here and waiting, waiting, waiting, and it's about to kill me. Would he notice if I keeled over right now? Probably not; he's way too fixed on those still-closed doors behind all the pews. The wedding photographer would catch me first. I can see it now: hey, is he supposed to be all limp on the floor like that? And everybody would turn their heads to the floor, at my immobile form, and finally House would turn back to the guy and say, Gee. I don't think so.

Only without the "gee," because come on, House doesn't say that. Really, now.

And then they'd take a few pictures and everyone would be about ready to strangle the photographer because he's taking so damn long and only then would they do the whole check-for-a-pulse-is-he-alive? thing. By then, the answer would have to be obvious but weddings, they just screw with people's perceptions of anything.

They'd probably check for my pulse not in my neck but somewhere weird, like my forehead, and pronounce me dead based off that type of fucked-up medical conclusion that can _only _happen at weddings. And they wouldn't have even gone to the reception yet, which, if House's bachelor parties are any evidence at all, should finish making everyone completely wasted within the first thirty seconds.

I almost thought to bring a stopwatch to test that theory, but you know, with me being dead all over the steps to the altar, it wouldn't have been much use.

The guy presiding over the wedding is really confusing me. I don't even know his title. Rabbi-priest? Priest-rabbi? Prabbi? What, what _is_ he? Cuddy's Jewish—duh—and House couldn't care either way—double-duh—but Blythe did so they found some interfaith guy, _this_ guy who's standing right here and who is confusing me to no end. No end, I tell you. Ten years from now, given that I'm still alive and that my frighteningly plausible hypothetical scenario does _not_ play out, I will still be bothered by this guy's title.

What the hell _is_ he?

It's ironic that the instrument of choice in this place is an organ, seeing as we're doctors. I just thought that I should point that out, only if the organ breaks and leaves this incredibly massive sanctuary deathly—haha, like I'm likely going to be!—silent, we couldn't do a thing about it. I doubt antique music organs would take very well to IV needles or Interferon. And let me tell you, this place _is_ massive. It's the only place that could fit us all, because Cuddy just _had_ to invite the whole goddamn hospital staff, from the other department heads to that janitor who wears his pants backwards. By the time Princeton-Plainsboro was counted as in attendance, there wasn't so much room for their families.

But what can I say? We're kind of freaking huge.

Take that, Princeton General. Are _you_ freaking huge? Noooooooo.

Generally speaking, I wish I'd had more forewarning about this whole debacle—yes, debacle—since the whole House-getting-married thing was not presented to me until I got the invitation to the wedding. There wasn't any, Hey Wilson I'm going to finally ask out Cuddy.

Cuddy actually mentioned it in a casual conversation in the clinic and I pulled that my-brain's-stopped-working-so-excuse-me-if-I-stare-at-you-with-this-shocked-expression-for-a-couple-seconds-until-we're-both-uncomfortable thing.

There wasn't any, Hey Wilson, I'm going to propose to Cuddy despite the fact that I've always condemned marriage as a way to fit my numerous personal needs. And there also wasn't any of the most important bit of all: Hey Wilson, _she said yes_.

How many more hymns do they really need to sing before she walks down that goddamn aisle already? I'd like to have the worst moment of my life to not be terribly prolonged. I might slip myself an extra hundred milligrams of amphetamines and then I'd _really _be twitching and then maybe my heart would explode like it wants to. I'd just be helping it along, that's the truth of it. Just—boom, collapse, and Chase would gaze around at the magnificent vaulted ceiling and wonder aloud where the fireworks came from and House would stare down at me, chuckle, and say, Nice parlor trick, Wilson.

Only with different wording, because House would never say "parlor trick."

And then everyone would notice the spewing from my chest and say too nonchalantly, That's not good, followed by a Can we get on with the vows?

Why didn't I slip more in my pocket?

Oh yeah. Because of thoughts like this. I'm so glad my sober self decided to think ahead.

Why is everyone standing? Oh. Well at least someone could have shouted OH HEY CUDDY! Or maybe not. No, that would not have resulted in fond wedding memories either, not like I'm going to have any of tonight. And unless House has set up the reception at my apartment, I'm not going. Yesterday I bought three huge tubs of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that I plan on consuming as soon as I get home, with a marathon of my favorite movies 'cause I'm not on call tomorrow and I can do that because I'm an adult and does it really matter that this is my best friend's wedding and that I should be happy that he, for once, is happy and who cares who that person is?

Well.

It's still a long story.

And I'm not about to get into it.

What do we have here…Cuddy certainly is taking her sweet time joining us. As expected. Gee, this is a wedding after all, and I say "gee" because that _is_ something I would say, obviously, since I just said it. But really. Cuddy could go a little faster. She jogs—I've _seen _her jogging. Ergo, she doesn't have to continue with this hey-let's-go-slow-and-torture-Wilson-because-that's-the-cool-thing-to-do-in-Paris thing. And by that logic, it's been the cool thing to do in Paris for six months. Or more. Everyone knows those trends take ages to swim across the pond.

Good thing I've never been to Paris. I might have been put on the stretching rack before I finished my morning croissant.

At the reception I'm not going to, they'll probably have Nutella because that's just how my luck has been working the past forever in my life. And you know what I say? You can keep your hazelnut, chocolaty goodness because I have ICE CREAM and NATIONAL TREASURE and there's no WAY you got Nicolas Cage to come to your reception.

On second thought…scratch that fleet of Chihuahuas. I want that stretching rack right here, right now, in this church. And could they please roll it over Cuddy's feet on the way in? They really should afford me a last giggle or something. Forget last meals. I want to laugh.

At least I'd be able to lie to myself for a second more and say that it was proof my insides aren't shredding themselves with a plastic butter-knife turned wannabe ninja. I mean, seriously. If I shouted I'M BLEEDING OUT and fell to the floor, _dramatically clutching my stomach_, someone would probably just kick me, not subtly, to get up and hold the perforation until after everyone's sobered up the next day. Next week, more likely.

And…she's here.

The end.

Game over.

And by "game," you should know what I mean.

And by "game over," I'm in no way talking about House and Cuddy.

Why is Taub grabbing my tux sleeve?—oh. I was rocking on my heels. That look he's giving me seems confused but pretty adamant about me staying, you know, still. This is a wedding after all. Who cares if someone's dying?

The prie—rabb—prabb—THAT IMPORTANT-LOOKING MAN HOLDING THAT BIG BOOK takes a breath.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I can hear his breath rattling dangerously, like one of those dementors Kutner occasionally mentioned when he was on a Harry Potter kick. And, very much like when those creepy things are around…say adios to happiness.

As if there were any to begin with.

"We are gathered here today—"

--to kill me? Seems like it.

"—union of Lisa Cuddy and Gregory House—"

--murder of the best man. It's right after the next hymn.

I can't watch. I can't listen. I can't TAKE THIS anymore but I can't return it. There's no receipt for time, no warranty when plans don't work out, because isn't that what plan B is for? In hindsight, my plan A really sucked. I mean, "wait and see"? What the fuck?

I'm an idiot, and House didn't even have to let me know. But in his own special way, he is right now. He just doesn't know it.

Dr. House, Dr. Analytical, thought he had someone figured out—and was completely wrong. Don't stop believing, House. Aren't you a fan of Journey? If not, I'm sorry since that was the whole point of that meager joke. I'll try a different band. Hey House, sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all, 'cause nothing really matters. How's Queen for you? Hm? Do the fandango? How about that? He's not turning around. It seems I've forgotten telepathy is wasted on the love-stricken. But what if I scream my thoughts—wow, that sounds kind of stupid, _screaming_ a silent thing—you know, caps lock and such?

HOUSE, DON'T DO IT.

"—to have and to hold—"

I WANT TO BE HELD SO I WON'T FALL. NO ONE WILL CATCH ME.

"—in sickness and in health—"

AHAHA. THAT'S FUNNY BECAUSE WE'RE DOCTORS.

I WANT TO STOP THINKING IN CAPS LOCK BUT I CAN'T FIND THE RIGHT KEY.

ARRRRRGH.

"If anyone has a reason these two should not be wed—"

SAY WHAAAAT?

"—speak now—"

WOW, I HOPE I DON'T SCREAM LIKE THESE THOUGHTS.

"—or forever—"

SUCH A LONG TIME…

"—hold your peace."

Time's up. I don't even know what I'm doing, but I watch my hand since it's flying—weeeee—to my lapel and ripping off the boutonniere, throwing it violently to the ground, all eyes on me, like a show, the amphetamines are clapping their nonexistent hands and Cuddy looks like she's debating whether or not to remain calm or turn wannabe ninja like that butter knife she released in my chest six months ago.

That knife, it still hasn't stopped.

The wedding has.

Amazingly.

"See that?" I'm talking really fast, oh boy, oh boy… "That's my peace. On the ground. I dropped my peace, so I'm not holding my peace any longer. The peace has not been held." I feel my head nod quickly and my hand grip the back of my neck and suddenly I'm looking at the ground and what a nice carpet! Expensive, probably.

Anyway. The staring. The embarrassment. Got to get back to what's at hand.

Hey, look at Foreman! Pretty sure that's a face-palm. I think he's on to me. But the amphetamines say _sssshhh!_

"Um…" the—well—whatever he is says slowly, in the same type of confusion he must conjure up every day. "What would you like to say, uh…"

"Wilson," House mutters to him out of the corner of his mouth, without ever taking his eyes off me. Any other day I might be grinning. Technically I'm still grinning now, but that's not the happiness talking. That's the drugs. Not the same thing. At all. And Foreman can't seem to get over that face-palm thing. Everyone else is just staring. Take a hint Foreman: your face doesn't like your palm that much! They've made friends enough already in the past ninety seconds!

"Yes, yes," the interfaith-whatever guy says again quickly. "What would you like to say, Wilson?"

Yes, self, what _would _you like to say now that you've interrupted the wedding? Hmmm? It must be important. Though I think my brain and my mouth took different exits on the interstate of confronting this very long story that I have yet to delve into because, come on. This isn't the time or the place, but it seems I've made it otherwise.

As expected.

My mouth wants to say something but my brain's all the way back at that sketchy gas station that guest-starred in the remake of _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_, looking for maps to help it get on the right road again, so all my mouth can say is, well, nothing, 'cause my brain's thinking "aethorismytsoiiokgdlgjjjjreoihggnnbbb" and I have no fucking idea how you pronounce that. But I'm trying.

"Oh God," House sighs with that typical twinge of annoyance and something else that sounds like concern, but come on, this is House. "He's trying to pass spluttering off as coherent sentences. _Again_."

Tigjrhermhshmmmhdfwleltweimgiofgs!!!

"Wilson," Cuddy hisses, her lips barely moving and I wish she would trip. "Say something!"

My reply is something you'd expect more from Frankenstein's monster than the head of the oncology department, but I guess it's just one of those days.

Or weeks.

Or lifetimes.

Or eternities. Yeah, eternities sounds about right.

"Why don't you want them to be married?" Mr. Mystery Title asks again, and I don't want to shout it to the world. I've told my closet.

Ahaha. My closet. How appropriate. I first admitted it to myself out loud when I was searching for a raincoat. In my closet. I'm a walking metaphor, and you won't hear me roar: you'll hear me deflect, but you'll think it's roaring. The two are easily confused. Trust me. There are many a deflecting lion running about.

House is staring at me.

I'm staring back.

Cuddy and that—urghhh—other guy are staring at both of us, taking turns. And the silence could do some strange metaphorical shit to some poor metaphorical victim. The victim? It's probably me, House too at this point. By now it's pretty clear that my qualms have nothing to do with Cuddy. Sorry, Cuddy, maybe next time.

House is still staring at me.

And I'm still staring back and the amphetamines are raising hell in my head, shrieking, and I want it to stop because I know it won't bring anything good no matter what they tell me but still I can't wonder if they're my conscience or subconscious or WHATEVER telling me to go ahead and do it, because even if it does fall through there are forty-nine other states and a couple other territories I can go hide and be miserable in.

Lsokgjsdgmbwrioehtqmooismdgbdfhoiasdhgalkzzqoiwqryiioethmifgfdoish!

"Wilson, what _is it_?" House snaps finally.

"I…"

"At least that's a word," I hear Taub mutter to my right.

"I…I…"

From a distance I get this odd sensation that my legs are moving and that my heart is flipping out, and as soon as I start to wonder just what the hell else the amphetamines are doing, my hands latch onto some sort of cloth and my tongue jumps down his throat.

House's.

...

It's even better than I imagined.

His hands are caught between us and make like they're going to shove me off but at the last second they curl around my own jacket, just long enough to make me laugh—for whatever reason, but I'm really not questioning anything right now—but briefly enough to remind me where we are.

We break away, and I can't look at him. Even the amphetamines have shut up, like the rest of those in the pews.

Taub is staring.

Foreman is staring. His eyes are bugging out of his head, too, and it's kind of frightening.

Cameron is staring, and with that "what the eff?"—wait, wait…yeah. That's definitely "what the fuck?" No mistaking that.

Thirteen isn't staring, but thinking. Kind of expected that.

And Chase is staring, slack-jawed and…is that some sort of grin? What the—good. Thank you, Foreman, for jabbing him in the rib cage. Now his shoes seem to be the most intriguing thing here.

I can't bear to look at Cuddy, so I don't. The aisle is calling my name and I follow obediently, a pied piper leading me on to my awaiting doom. Sounds like a plan. Just keep walking, Wilson, just keep walking, head down, hands cupped around the chin, and walking. Which of the forty-nine states would you like to try next?

As the door swings behind me, an Australian accent bounces incredibly loudly around the spacious room—"What happens now?"

X-X-X

I'm in love with Greg House—that's the long story, what I didn't want to get into, what made this day implode on itself, why I'm hiding in the church kitchen just off the lobby. My only company is some old coffeepot, and by the looks of the dust and the lack of any sort of caffeinated aroma, it probably hasn't been used in years.

And by the sound of my thoughts, all coherent and such, I take it the amphetamines are finally wearing off. Thank God. To think I had considered taking _ten_ milligrams this morning is just a testament to how completely out-of-my-mind I was…how much I wished I could stop the day by taking speed, which, in retrospect, really didn't make any sense.

My life doesn't make any sense, but whose does? Kissing your male best friend at his own wedding—how's that supposed to make sense? Certainly it seemed like the right idea at the time.

"Wilson."

For God's sake, House, now is not the time for one of your analyzing spiels. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone, and let me brood. Brooding seems like the right idea at _this_ time.

Eh. So maybe I shouldn't brood. That whole at-the-time thing really didn't work out so well before.

"…House." I try to lift my eyes to his but mine falter around his neckline. "Happily married?" I sigh.

"Nope. Stand up."

"Wh-why? Everyone was already—"

"Shut up for a second and _stand up_."

Shifting slightly, he takes a deep breath and absently massages his bad leg, and just as I secure my stance on the ground his gaze snaps back to my face. "Listen," he says, and it's not at all like the House I'm used to. "This is probably going to be the only time I act like a normal human being, so pay attention." All at once his voice drops as his eyes do, surveying everything along the floor. "I couldn't marry Cuddy after I saw you today—this is weird," he says suddenly, interrupting himself. "There's a reason I keep my soul in a spill-proof bottle." And another deep breath later, he's still hoping I'll cut in and save him from the explanation. "She…suggested we should take a break."

I think this odd sensation in the pit of my stomach is more from hope than the questionable cream cheese at breakfast, but I don't dare let him see, not yet, not when things could still turn out so wrong…

Uneasily he taps his cane on the floor, peers past me to the closed door where I can pick out the muffled sounds of wedding guests shuffling back to their cars, a few fleeting words of gossip pouring from familiar voices. Chase's is too distinct for his own good. "So…" he murmurs. "I'm willing to give this a try." Again he waits, and again I say nothing, stunned. "For you.

"Because as long as those doors are shut, we can do whatever the hell we want and no one has to give a damn. And even when they're open, those people can say whatever the hell they want and _we_ won't give a damn." How can House make a gruff comment sound like the sweetest line of poetry?

And finally he looks at me, and finally I take a few steps toward him, and finally—something clicks, a foreign sound to my ears and an alien setting to my life. My hand around the back of his neck, I sneak out a smile. "I love you."

"I know."

Our lips meet, softly at first, slowly charging with sudden outbursts exploding around us like fireworks whose meaning we can't begin to comprehend. Little by little I sense his strong arms clutching me closer to him and I never want him to let me go. I'm consumed by his scent, his taste, his contours beneath my fingers and even if I had an eternity to know him this way it wouldn't be enough.

Eventually he pulls away and places a chaste kiss on my forehead. "And I'm beginning to think I love you, too."


End file.
